Waking into Curtis High School, Tom was greeted by Lou Stout, the school’s steadfast principal, carrying some papers. The skinny science teacher knew it was a bad sign. Sighing loudly, he asked his boss, “Whose class is it this time?”
“Your favorite. Mrs. Murray has the flu. She’ll appreciate it greatly.”
“I’d like something more substantial from that one—like a piece of her ass,” Tom replied, somewhat annoyed.
“Wouldn’t we all. I’d give my right arm for a tumble with her. Just the thought of her big ass keeps me awake at night,” Stout said, looking at a cute coed who happened to be walking by. It was Lora, one of Tom’s students.
“Lora, I don’t hear you rattling your copper bracelets. What happened to them?” Tom asked the flaky teenager.
“I’m soaking them in ammonia. Trying to remove the green coating,” she replied.
“That green compound is called verdigris. I think acetone, nail polish remover, would work better.”
Handing Tom Mrs. Murray’s notes, the administrator said, “It’s a lesson on … let me see … Eastern religion. Sounds kind of interesting.”
“Sounds boring as hell. What do I care about Eastern religion? I’ve been excommunicated by two major religions: the Catholic Church and the Protestants.”
“Doesn’t matter. Knock yourself out. Set off one of your match-head rockets to get them in the mood for the apocalypse,” Stout replied, leaving Tom and heading for his cozy office.
Later that day, Tom entered Mrs. Murray’s room to a raucous chorus of cheers and boos. He placed a picture of Siddhartha Gautama, founder of Buddhism, at the front of the room. Then he wrote the aim on the board: “What is Buddhism?”
“So after years of barhopping, you finally found religion,” Barry snapped.
“What are you talking about? I neither barhop nor shun spiritual matters,” Tom replied, trying to look sincere.
“I know who that dude is. He’s Buddha—the guy who started Buddhism,” Manny called out from the back of the room.
“That’s correct. His real name was Siddhartha Gautama—a sage who lived in India around the fifth century BC,” Tom stated, reading from Rosie Murray’s lengthy notes.
“Siddhartha was born in Nepal, to a royal family. And he gave up a life of wealth to become a wandering beggar,” said Riner, who was a conscientious student.
“That’s right. Siddhartha became a mendicant, walking around India seeking truth about the meaning of life. I guess you could call him an avatar—the embodiment of the ideal in human form.”
“Like your friend Amon, the Mariners Harbor Messiah.”
“You know that guy? I heard he can bring people back from the dead,” Barry said, scrutinizing his teacher for signs of mysticism.
“Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers—it’s overstated,” Tom replied. “Anyway, Siddhartha renounced the good life for a life of poverty.”
“You mean Buddha left his palace and his stuff, plus his good-looking servant girls, to walk around begging for scraps of food? That’s messed up,” Barry exclaimed.
Perusing Mrs. Murray’s notes, Tom replied, “Siddhartha believed that wisdom can only be attained through suffering—hunger, poverty, sickness, deprivation, and death.”
“Was Buddha into meditation like those Vietnamese monks?” Wendy asked.
Checking Mrs. Murray’s notes, Tom read, “After Siddhartha spent forty-nine days meditating, he became enlightened. Buddha realized that a person must be free of greed, hatred, lust, violence, ignorance, and other afflictions to attain peace of mind.”
Lora raised her hand, rattling her copper bracelets, which drew everyone’s attention. “I know what perfect peace of mind is called: nirvana.”
“Nirvana? Isn’t that when a woman has an orgasm?” Manny yelled.
“Why don’t you shut your filthy mouth!” Lora shouted, astonishing the entire class, including their young teacher.
Glancing at his notes, Tom stated, “Nirvana is the state of supreme liberation in which all people behave decently, showing kindness and love, practicing mindfulness and meditation.”
“Sounds utopian to me. Like Karl Marx’s ideal classless society where everybody is equal, everything is shared, and the state withers away,” said Marty, a conservative student who was into politics.
“In every religion there are warnings about corruption and greed. The biblical prophet Amos spoke out against rich landowners who exploited the poor. Jesus cast out the money lenders from the temple and blessed the meek, the poor, and the persecuted. In the Koran, Muslims are urged to help the needy and the weak through zakat, a charity tax. And Hindus emphasize the spiritual over the material in the Bhagavad-Gita,” Tom recited from his notes.
“There’s too much greed and violence in this country. What we need is more love and less hatred,” asserted Ronnie.
“It’s probably a remnant from the Old West, when everybody—the guys in the white hats and the guys in the black hats—all carried guns,” Tom replied.
“The Beatle George Harrison—didn’t he record some of that Eastern music with that Indian guy, Ravi Shankar?” inquired Marty, who was a news junkie.
“Yes. Harrison gave a concert to benefit the people of Bangladesh after they went through a catastrophic flood in 1970,” Tom mentioned.
Lora raised her hand, minus her copper bracelets. “I saw these Hare Krishna guys chanting in New York City last summer.”
On cue, Barry got out of his seat, chanting and dancing. “Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare.”
Transfixed by the mischievous teenager’s antics, the class ignored the bell as Barry invoked the Hindu god Krishna. As luck would have it, Lou Stout was passing by in the hall. Stopping, he called out to Tom, “Man! You must have inspired your kids with that lesson on Eastern religion.”
“What can I say? I’m an inspirational teacher.”
“Yes, he is, Mr. Stout. He’s the avatar of the teachers,” Lora concurred as she left the class sans her jingling bracelets.